


In Good Company

by PitaBreadandScribbles



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, S3 rewrites
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-14 16:28:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18951796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PitaBreadandScribbles/pseuds/PitaBreadandScribbles
Summary: S3-01 AU.In which Phryne delivers on supper.





	In Good Company

Her face is a picture of delight when she greets him at the door. 

“Jack!” she chimes, pleased as ever—if somewhat breathless. Phryne runs a hand down his lapels, stopping at his new tie. She presses the fabric into place, the gentle contact enough to make him shiver.

“Lovely,” she says.

He nods—suddenly free of his pulse. “Miss Fisher.”

She opens the door wide in welcome, and Jack steps inside the Wardlow. He removes his hat and coat, eyeing the deep cut in her shimmering, sleeveless gown. 

“I hope you’re hungry,” Phryne says, “Mr. Butler has been working away all night.”

For a moment, the inspector just stands there, eyes flickering between her and the candlelight he can see brimming across the hall. Jack swallows, his heart beating a little faster. 

This is real. 

 

 

 

There is an all-too-audible click as Mr. Butler vacates the dining room. Jack watches the firelight, as she holds out her hand for him, and feels a quiet thrill. 

They are alone. 

 

 

 

The dinner is mouthwatering—roast partridge and wine with steamed duck, slathered in dark sauce. She feeds him a bite off her fork, before letting him eat the rest himself. When he kisses her, he can taste it on her tongue. 

_Finally, dear god,_ Jack thinks, hand roving through her hair, as her mouth works down his throat.

 

 

 

 

 

Mr. Butler, at least, has the grace to knock. Jack’s tie is skewed, his shirt torn open—buttons glinting on the floor. Phryne rises from his chair and sends the man away, speaking to him privately through a gap in the door. The room is so dark; Jack rubs his eyes, the feel of her skin like a ghost in his hands. 

Phryne is saying something, but all he can focus on is the ache between his eyes—the blood pumping through his temple. Finally, she grasps him by the head. 

“I think I’ll have you right here, Jack Robinson.” 

Jack’s eyes go wide, his mouth agape, as she unfastens his trousers and slinks into his lap. He hisses, spine tingling, as she reaches the apex of his legs. 

“Phryne,” he begs, “not here—” 

She touches him slowly, carefully, making him groan and shiver.

“No?” 

His throat works. The feel of her is like a hot brand against his skin. Jack grits his teeth.

“No.”

She pulls off him, with an indignant huff, like a brush of wind. But before she can get too far, Jack takes her hand. He pulls himself to his feet. 

Phryne looks at him, somewhere between weeping and murderous. 

“Inspector, if you say you’re leaving—“

He quiets her with a touch to her arm and leans in—slow and close, until his nose brushes her ear.

“I want you to have me,” he murmurs, “in a proper bed.”

“Jack...”

He strokes her face. Arches a brow. 

“Or would you prefer the table?”

Her mouth quirks. A shine of mischief creeps back to her eyes. 

“I would _prefer_ anywhere I can get you on your proper _knees,_ inspector.”

His jaw works. Jack draws the strap of her dress to the side, and dips his head, mouthing a wet kiss upon her shoulder. Phryne shudders, muffling a needy sound with the back of her palm as he touches her through her clothes. Finding the slit in her dress, his fingers trace lower, rubbing against the garments underneath. 

Jack wipes his fingers clean on her slip. When he draws back to look at her, his eyes are dark. 

“I’m sure that can be arranged, Miss Fisher.”

Trembling, she squeezes his hand, and takes a step back. Then another. Slowly, so slowly, it feels nearly painful, they make their way up the stairs. 

 

 

 

Her room is satin and glowing—soft in the moonlight, like her skin, which he traces with finger and tongue. Nipping the inner end of her thigh, he wonders for a moment at the ghost of other lovers. Of other men who have danced and drunk with her and left with their fill. How does it compare with her—having him and the parade?

His name is a sharp gasp between her teeth, as he finds just the right spot, the right angle of entry—and Jack wonders idly if he’ll ever reach such a state—if there will ever come a day where he can part from her, truly sever himself, satisfied and whole. 

Phryne whimpers—begs for him, and it’s all Jack can do to shuck off his trousers and move between her legs. 

When he finally slips inside her, he sees the constellations move, all his starry-eyed fantasies and seductive daydreams, burning and true. 

They come alive at her touch.


End file.
